Sheaperds
by Quite Silent
Summary: Clarice has a visit from an very close stranger who finds her a suitable play thing, even if she doesent want to join in the fun. (fifths here)
1. Defulted Chapitare!

Disclaimer: not my characters, but my "fic" idea.

The chilled winter wind blew through the open field and into the wooded passage that completed the link between the cold, nearly frozen waters of a near by river and the open field. The whole of the field was covered in rocks and old snow, with the exception of one small, discolored patch of dead grass and leaves. The old patch was about ten by twelve feet and was called Devils arms because nothing could grow or live there. In winter the snow on the patch would melt before all the rest and in the fall and spring when it would rain it would be the quickest area in the field to dry.

It was December the twelfth and had freshly snowed the night before. A very young Clarice had been called out to survey the area after a few loud dragging sounds and a hideous scream was heard that night by a neighboring apartment complex. The bureau had believed it to be just a couple of kids messing around, (considering Devils arms was the town's top make-out spot for teens.) until they were notified by the local police force that a young man of the age of 27 had gone missing two days before.

Clarice, being only twenty four and a half and having the skill to solve one of the biggest murder cases since the Lecter murders, was sent to check out the scene. Apparently the "Higher people" thought she would be right for the job. So there she was in the center of a huge field, wrapped up in several thin jackets and a black wool cap, her long brown/red hair streaming down her back and keeping her neck warm in its length. She had already searched half the field for evidence for about two hours and was now moving on to the second half.

She began to walk slowly to the other part of the field when she saw a black shadowy figure move beside her.

A/N: yea I know its short, sorry, was bored and suddenly influenced then hit a rather large speed bump, I'll write more later with the correct reviews. (4)

-Qs


	2. The fox's Chase

Disclaimer-I don?t own, you don?t own, Mr. Harris owns them all.

The cool wind blew past her broken, cold features chilling the long strands of reddish brown hair that covered her now frozen feeling neck. Quivering chills spun down her lightly covered spine making her body shake as subject to the wind. She turned immediately to catch what she had seen in full view. ?Damn that thing can run what ever the hell it is.? She thought, her steely blue eyes catching hold of a dark figure just before it was consumed by the black of the woods, just off of the flat field. It had been hunched over like an animal just as it hit the trees but she couldn?t take a chance. It could have been a suspect in the ?situation? if there was indeed a ?situation?. In a split second she took off after it. She ran as fast as she could, the cold sophocating wind beating at her face and limbs, her brown/red hair swooped up in an almost elegant stream behind her.

She got to the woods in a mere thirty seconds. "Stop! FBI!" she yelled, her throat hot with breath, the steam of it smoothly gliding into the air as a cooling mist. "Fuck" she whispered under her breath. "Should I call for back up? No he?ll get away faster, better keep after him..er..it" She took off at the drop of a hat once again. She had to be very aware of her surroundings, as to not trip over a log or root.

He lay in the steady branches of an old oak, its trunk heavy and solid. He watched as the lovely bird stopped for a rest, her eyes flickering about the forest looking for the bug she had been chasing. "Little does she know, The hungry fox is in the tree, looking for some breakfast in the form of a little starling." He thought to himself as he watched her breath seep out of her nose and mouth like a sole escaping a dying body. He jumped down from the form consuming branches of the tree, landing on the cold, mellow hearth of the ground.

Clarice stopped, he heart pounding, she had heard the loud thump, descending from a tree behind her, she then heard loud, fierce cleats beating the cold, chilly ground in a steady rhythm. "Shit" She turned swiftly, her hand flying to the blue, leather holster that concealed her smooth colt .45. "Stop! Stand where you are!" She screamed, the boldness in her voice shattered him. So this was what Jame had done to her? He had instilled fear and bravery in the little bird's heart.

The once thin figure stood before her, now tall and athletically built. "Good, now turn around and put your hands in the air. Now!" She now held her .45 in the strength of her hands; the cool icy metal seemed to turn her palms and fingers to a freezing likeness. "Hey little birdy." a calm, yet almost ecstatic voice bounced off of the trees and rasped into her ears. "I said turn, I'll shoot you sir if you don't follow my orders!" she said back just as calmly. Was that fear? Yes. He could detect fear in her voice.

"Would you really put a bullet in my side just for running Ms. Starling?? A crude, unnerving smile flashed across his face. At just that moment Clarice's arm shook ever so slightly and he knew this was an opportune moment to strike. He sprang at her, his arms out; he removed the gun from her grasp. Just as he did this the first heavy snowflakes fell onto the now shocked Clarice's black woolen cap. Before she could asses what was going on she was on the ground being covered by his body.

"Get off me!!" she screamed, his hands grabbing at her throat and jacket zipper. She began to struggle even harder once the reality of the situation hit her after she began to feel the cold, due to the absence of her three jackets.

"No Clarice, do you know how long I've wanted to meet you?"

"Let go!!! Please!!!" her clamped throat bellowed. She could feel his other hand going over her frail frame.

Her knee bent up quickly, kneeing him in the groin. She shoved his whole off of herself and stood. She immediately began to run, her throat burnt with pain, breath and warm blood. He had had a knife in his hand. When she had kneed him he had cut her neck all the way down to her collar bone.

As she ran she made no effort to watch where she was going, branches cutting her face and now bare arms and roots tripping her feet. It was now snowing heavily and Clarice was at a loss considering she had been stripped of her jackets when almost raped by some freak. Her faded black shirt, blue jeans, cheap shoes and black beanie were all that kept her from the elements. Her formerly black shirt was now a pinkish color, covered in snow and her own blood. She stopped for a single breath behind a tree, her heart raced franticly in her chest.

A/N: I need three reviews. Tell me how it is please.-Qs


	3. Such a cage as this?

Disclaimer: if you haven't noticed these characters belong to Mr. T Harris.

The full, thick forest grasped all that did not usually occupy its crowded arms; engulfing these unusual inhabitants in confusion and loss. The only noises to be heard were the sounds of running water and feet breaking twigs and crushing leaves. Clarice held her breath, her fingers subconsciously crossed. "Oh my god, this guys a real son of a bitch." Her thoughts trailed off. Suddenly she was taken aback with the realization that she had not thought it, she had practically yelled it. "Go Starling! Real good." This time she whispered, turning to run once more. She could see the river just up ahead.

She bolted for its "green with winter" waters. However just as she first stepped off the loud crack of a blistering gun shot rang off into the sky. The only thoughts that ran through Clarice's head were of fear and death.

"The lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures." Her voice cracked, betraying her bravery and a large section of deception she had been taught to use. She immediately came to a halt and turned, facing her pursuer in the eye, not blinking once.

"He leadeth me beside still waters. He restoreth my soul." The man could see Clarice's lips mouthing words, and could hear the slight whisper of hardly spoken sentences. "Ahuh." It hit him. She was whispering the worlds to Psalm 23.

"He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yey, though I walk through the valley of death, I will fear no…"

"Evil." His raspy, sickening voice echoed the finishing of the sentence. "Clarice the lord can't help you now"

The Psalm was taught to her as a child in the Lutheran orphanage. They had had to state it in front of one of the religious classes they were taking. If they hadn't memorized it all their knuckles would be hit several times with a metal ruler.

She began to slowly waltz backward, keeping her eyes locked on his. She was still chanting the Psalm. "For thou art with me."

"No he's not Clarice, he's never been there."

"Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me."

"Thou preparest a table blah blah blah, yada yada!" he screamed, his eyes fierce, her own gun pointed towards her stomach. "This is it, move!" she thought, turning and smashing leaves with her tired feet, the Psalm's words echoing in the corners of her mind, she could see the small river just ahead of her.

"Stop little birdy! I wanna pay with you!" he yelled, his voice taunting.

Suddenly Clarice's right knee buckled under her with a sharp, sizzling pain. Everything froze as it was, then it all seemed to be ripped back into place in a split second. The echoing of the gun was back, the sound of birds, the wind, and running water; she was being soaked with cold freezing water.

Her head ached with pain and cold. The only warmth she felt poured from her leg in crimson waves. She set her hands to work on her knee, her cold fingers protruding into the wound and causing immense pain. She swiftly pulled her hands back, not realizing that a tall dark figure now stood above her. Slowly she brought her hands back to the wound; she prepared herself for a large wave of pain that would soon wash over her spine. Her frozen fingers began to dig into the bloodied wound, searching for the sickly bullet, until finally it was removed and in her now rosy red hands. "Oh my god." She cringed, dropping the bullet and falling back in a mixture of pain and relief.

"Don't say the lord's name in vain Clarice." He laughed. He bent down and gently plucked her fro, the waters. She shook a great deal and dug her nails into his arms, each with out result. She finally gave up, overcome with pain and exhaustion. He gently rubbed her cut cheeks with his rough fingers.

"Gentle moon lay down your hands, for god has given his sweet plans to angels; their winged flight will give thy sight to mortals;" he began to sing the soft lyrics to her. Gradually her vision began to fail with each word. _That song… I know…................_

Hannibal stood in a Florentine museum humming a song he had heard once before, when he was very young. "Gentle moon lay down your hands, for god hmm hmm hmm his sweet plans to angels..."

A/N: I need reviews. Ok? Oh and special thanks to my friend Theresa for some thoughts.


	4. Dead Dove

Disclaimer: These characters are not my own.

The loud buzz of motor engines filled the usually still air. Its habitual calmness now withered away with the speed of vehicles, sending the air tossing and turning about in the open skies. The putt putt of cars engines was joined in a sickly waltz with loud radios and CD players. The music scrambling from car to car as volumes were lowered and raised in sequence. Snow fell from its soft pillows onto the cold earth, graying the sky and smothering the last warmth felt on this day. Clarice Starling of the F.B.I. now lay, wrapped in several very chilly, plastic tarps in the trunk of her captor's 68 Ford Galaxie.

She had stressfully given up, weak with exhaustion and pain. She now lay unconscious, her breath steady and showing in chilly puffs. They drove for hours upon hours seemingly with no end. Finally 18 hours later the car stopped with a sudden thud. Clarice remained asleep her face now drained of its color, her light freckles now deep round dots against a white canvas.

He slowly twisted the key in the ignition with sweet triumph, turning off the car which held his prize. He had captured her. After a year of looking he had found her and captured her. Like a rare bird finally caged and at his mercy. He quickly removed himself from the orange front seat, keys in hand and jogged to the trunk, shoving the key in its hole with shaky hands. The Trunk's lid drew up with a loud creak sending chills down his spine. "Clarice…" he whispered as he began to pull away the tarps as if he was a small child opening a present on Christmas day. As her thin figure was revealed butterfly's swarmed into his stomach in bouts and waves.

"You are so peaceful when you sleep Clarice." Just as he said these few words she began to stir, her teeth clenching and eyes squinting. He knelt down and lightly caressed her pale cheek with his frosty hands. "Perhaps I have spoken to soon; I have forgotten about your lambs my dear Shepherd." He reached around her back, feeling her soft skin and her hard shoulder blades on his arms, his left arm holding her upper back, is right holding her legs at the bend of her knee's. He picked her up carefully as though she was a broken child. Her arms and legs dangling limp, her head resting on his toned upper arm.

Hannibal stood admiring a brilliant painting that was hung before him. He stood staring into the equally extraordinary eyes of a painting; it was of a small child holding a dripping heart in its hands, resting in the heart as though it was a cage was a tiny lamb. The child's dress was magnificent. It was painted to be a stone blue silk. The child's eyes were of a dark green ominous color; in each were bright flecks of gold; probably made up of gold leaf or another form of slim gold perfect for paintings... The outer rings of the eyes were bright orange in color. Its silk robe was twisted around its round child's body and stopped at its feet. Its long brown locks swept down its round, softened cheeks. Behind the child stood and angel, its skin dark and its eyes wide and kind. Its hands rested on the child unsteady shoulders as a single tear slipped from the angel's eyes. The angels auburn hair streamed up into the air as though the wind was blowing. It wings were in great detail, its feathers grey black and white. The red and blue veins showed through out he wings, for the sun's glow lightly penetrated the feathers security and illuminated the front view of the wings.

The painting was entitled " L'agnello degli angeli."

"The lamb of Angels."

A/N: ok I hit a bump the size of Europe that just happened to be writers block. I don't need a certain amount of reviews but if you think I should change this chapter or any other please inform me.


	5. Perfume and Music

Disclaimer: These Characters belong to one Mr. Thomas Harris. These Lyrics are also not of my creation.

Cigar smoke was dazzling in the thick air, dancing about in childlike twists and turns; the smell enchanting and daring in a sense. Other scents drifted in a blending mist. Wine, perfume, freshly baked bread; so many smells to delight the senses. The street was filled with people, laughing, crying, smiling, dancing. A light music was slickly caressing the stones of the road. Its melody was smooth and old fashioned, quite like a song one would hear in the 1920's to early 40's. The elegant voice of its singer suave and perfect for the time periods style.

"Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin; Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in, Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove…Dance me to the end of love…"

Surprisingly he noted that the soothing lyric was in English, not Italian. The sound was emitting from a small jazz club to his left, yet there were no singers to be seen, only a large stereo system from which the words poured. He took a short puff on his cigar and walked slowly into the smoke clouded room, a coin flicking through his cigar free hand.

Soon it was deposited in his jackets pocket for later use. "Chi, se posso domandare, è questo artista?" he asked his Italian skillful as though he had studied its very pronunciation for many years. "Ciao il signore, questo artista è uno del Madeleine nome Peyroux." The plump man spoke back smiling with chipped and out of place teeth. "Grazie signore. Buon giorno." Hannibal Lecter strode off, his cigar almost dragged to the stub.

"Madeleine Peyroux" he though out loud as he introduced the name to his memory palace along with the smooth sound of the song. Suddenly standing before him was a young woman of about 24 or 25 her hair deep reddish brown. Quickly he was caught up in her beautiful crystal blue gaze, staring him down, feeding off of his thoughts and soul.

"Clarice?" He reached out for her touch but soon pulled away realizing the woman had not blue eyes but dark brown, almost black. As he reached out she moved to put a woven bracelet upon his wrist. "No! Sia andato io non desiderano bracelet." He said pulling his hand back. "Che cosa circa per questo Clarice che caro parlate di?" the woman's thin voice seeped through a false smile. "What about for this dear Clarice you speak of?" the words range fresh in his mind as he walked further down the street towards an elegant Villa, now turned into a CD shop. "Madeleine Peyroux…Madeleine Peyroux…Ahh here we are". He picked up a CD entitled Careless love. He quickly made his way to the register. What a wonderful gift this would make for Clarice…Along with some Perfume.

Clarice awoke to an intense burning sensation on her left cheek and her arms, she screamed loudly realizing what it was an as the immense pain hit her. Standing above her was her kidnapper, spraying sweet smelling perfume into a deep cut on her left cheek.

A/N: sorry it's so short I hit a speed bump (writers block) the size of Nevada and then some.


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